


avant gaurde

by YellowGoingBlue



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: AFTG Big Bang 2017, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Non-Graphic Violence, alternate universe - jazz band
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 14:58:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11716743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowGoingBlue/pseuds/YellowGoingBlue
Summary: Jazz music and gangs grew in the same vein.Nathaniel Wesninski would know. By day his father was a cellist, gingerbread ties, and chocolate bows, russet hair glossed back to a rosin; by night a chorus of screams, by morning rotting cardinal sheets. Musicians made for good murderers. His mother was a classical harpist. There was a rhythm – a precision - Lola would say in killing, an upbeat on the swing, a downbeat on the breath. Quarter note after quarter note, it was important to keep time. Nathaniel Wesninski learned early on to keep the tempo.Although the transitions between time signatures were muddled.





	1. Prologue

**Prologue**

Jazz music and gangs grew in the same vein.

Nathaniel Wesninski would know. By day his father was a cellist, gingerbread ties, and chocolate bows, russet hair glossed back to a rosin; by night a chorus of screams, by morning rotting cardinal sheets. Musicians made for good murderers. His mother was a classical harpist. There was a rhythm – a precision - Lola would say in killing, an upbeat on the swing, a downbeat on the breath. Quarter note after quarter note, it was important to keep time. Nathaniel Wesninski learned early on to keep the tempo.

Although the transitions between time signatures were muddled.

* * *

Lives and memories jumped and jumbled inside of Neil’s head like an old congealed jar of candy. The remnants of past lives bled into one another, coagulated and stiffened together, beginnings and endings mushed past each other. In tiny reserved moments, he could feel forget insidiously wrapping its way past and through his fingers. He fidgeted, his fingers gapped into unknown chords.

Whistles were shrill and loud and ugly sounding.

The small stick of plastic was a lifeline, an heirloom of a life he could never have. An imitation fossil.

No strings attached, but the rhythm of his racing pulse and the thrum of his ears.

The toy was forgotten among bygones.


	2. Chapter 1

Neil arrived at Millport in the middle of the night, his hands gripping the rusted handles of a bike, his lungs full of smoke, his jaw thick with pressure.

The night weighed heavy on everything it encompassed: his hair, his eyes, his shaking hands, the cracked pavement and the web of weeds growing through it.

Cars zoomed past, loud pop music blaring from their speakers, conflicting lyrics and sounds creating dissonance between their cheerful ignorance and his impotence.

The streetlight flickered rutile and onyx, and he attempted to breathe. In and out. In and out. In through the nose out through the mouth. Be it the sounds of his surroundings or the threats threaded within them, his breath lay crushed behind his nostrils even before it could take flight. His head pounded with effort, with the memory of his mother’s sharp slap against his head. He was paralyzed from the waist down. He had to move.  

 _He had to move, move. Goddamit_. He had to get away before he was noticed, move out of the country before his father could find him.

At least one of them had to survive long enough to outlive his father, after all.

Hopelessly, he smiled and willed his feet to move.

Only the dead could lay still.

                                                                                                               

* * *

 

It was 7 am, and he had waited outside of guidance for a solid fifteen minutes before they called him in. The guidance office was small, and overbearing in the silencing way of dark wood. The guidance counselor was cool and composed in her blue blouse and manicured nails.

“I didn’t apply for beginning guitar.” His voice trembled and his tongue felt too big for his mouth. “Is there any way of changing this?”

The guidance counselor peered over her stylish round framed glasses.  “Is it really that bad?”

“I didn’t sign up for it.”

“Don’t you want to expand your horizons?”

He shrugged; the Neil Josten thing to do. “That’s why I applied for visual art classes.”

Her smooth surface remained unrippled. “But those classes are full.”

It was Millport. The school population was under three hundred. There was no way every class he signed up for was full. He flexed his toes. “Creative writing?”

“She’s … selective with her students.”

He raised a brow and clenched the quiver in his hands. “Intro to Tech?”

“It’s only half a semester.” She paused and pursed her lips, but continued to go down the list. “Neil?” Her eyes were wide, a muddled brownish green like algae in water.

The shrill of the coffee machine was an augmented fifth. He scraped some grease off of his fingernail.

“Neil?” she said again.

“Y-yes?”

“Just try it.” She smiled thinly, “For the week. If you don’t like it, I’ll see what I can do. Ok?” She nodded.

Reluctantly, he returned the gesture. He felt like an urn. He could feel his mother’s ashes rocking against his clay exterior.

 

* * *

 

He stood alone in the bathroom, surveying his reflection, surveying what was left of his past. Beneath all of his disappointment, intrigue ebbed. His fingers after so many years itched to hold an instrument, to press down on keys, to plore over strings. Music was not an option. It couldn’t be. The lights flickered on and off, lingering on a shallow umber before falling back into saccharine jaundice. The thrum echoes in his jaw. The mirror was splintered and pocked in obscenities. The dark eyes of Neil Josten stared back at him. Empty brown eyes, brown skin, brown bags. Close-cropped black hair, and not a hint of his father’s curls.

He had 10 minutes before class started.

Beyond a crudely drawn dick, his father’s fine bones burned prominently.

His brows curled downwards disappointedly, Hatford charm.

He had five minutes until class started, and still, Neil Josten had not arrived.

It was not until he splashed his face with water that he felt like himself again.                  

                                                         

* * *

 

The gray walls of the music room sagged beneath the bright pictures and posters. The ceiling was cut into a mess of veins and arteries, and for the first time all day the lights were consistent: a glaring fluorescent. Neil hunched in the back, toying with the window latch.  In the front there was a guitar rack and an electric piano, a whiteboard half covered in taped ledger lines. The music teacher, an athletic looking middle aged man paced around the tiled front.

He waited patiently, for the crisp bite of his name.

“Neil Josten?” Vowels sharp, frequency high.

“Neil Josten?” he called again.

There was a draft. Mentally he cursed. He raised his hand.

“Neil -,” Hernandez looked up from his laptop.

“Present,” Neil said meekly.

He sighed and nodded. “Louder next time, please? Matthew Jaffe. ”

There was dull grumble.

Again, he thought, I was not meant to be in this class. This is is a mistake.

“My name is Joseph Hernandez. Some of you might recognize me, most will not.”

The shallow murkiness of blue eyes.  

“I’m the new director of music.”

He looked away.

His callouses, built up from almost a decade on the run, were flaking and tearing.                           

                                                                           

* * *

 

The last couple sashayed out of the room, the girl flush against the boy’s hip, her arm wrapped lazily around his. The class had gone well: there had been an ice breaker and a quick review of musical notes, a lesson on the names of the guitar strings (EADGBE) and an acronym to remember them by (Elephants And Donkeys Grow Big Ears).

“Neil?” Hernandez asked.

Neil unfolded himself from the corner he’d stashed himself away in. “Yes.”

“I understand what it’s like to adjust to somewhere new.” Hernandez’s words seemed to travel through water, rather than air, slurred and paused in unusual places. “How are you?”

 _I’m going to be late for my next class._ “I’m fine.”

Hernandez's face was about as warm and ruddy as a poppy flower, and immediately Neil took a disinterest in him. “If you ever need someone to talk to,  I’m here, alright?”

“Sure.” Neil grabbed the gray strap of his backpack. “Have a good day.”   

                                                                                                     

* * *

 

The day passed in a blur, and now, in an abandoned leaky basement, rich with mildew,  Neil thumbed through the laminated pages of his journal, cradling it between his chest and legs. The smiling faces of Kevin and Riko, their faces round and chubby, thin arms slung around each other: “ _the youngest ever to win a grammy!”_ An older Kevin, cheek stained by the number “2,” pressing down on checkered piano keys. Riko crowing into a microphone, hair slicked back, jowls raised; his hands throttling the mike.

Neil’s sheet music and assignments lay neatly piled in a far corner of the room, and realistically he knew that he would need another binder, but he rather ignored them. If Neil Josten didn’t exist, neither did his homework.

He examined the gaping whole of Kevin and Riko. It was evident that severe perfection was not without its flaws: it wasn’t a secret that Ravens did not survive long after fleeing the Nest. But still. He wanted. He yearned. Wesninskis, Durands, Schneiders, and Jostens were not raised to be dependent.

Independence wasn’t meant to be isolation.

The Raven Orchestra was strictly based on the principle of “Call and Response,” no melody and no player was ever alone. Solos were choral arrangements interlaced and blended into each other. It was heavy drums, and blaring horns, a throbbing consistency. “Raven King,” blared in his mind’s ear.

His mother would kill him if she knew.

Alex, Stefan and Chris forever held their peace.

But dead women could do no more.

Neil Josten was a shattered urn.                                                       

                                     

* * *

 

His mother’s voice was ingrained into his defense mechanisms, she _was_ his sense of danger and fear. She was the momentum behind his interest in music, and the one to tear him out of it. She weighed down on him, leaving him stunted beneath deadweight.

Once upon a time, she had been the one to introduce him to music. He remembered her, in her night gown, guiding his fingers over piano keys, after particularly bad nightmares. Her shaking his rattles in 2/4 time, humming him to sleep.

Forgetting her would not stop the butcher from finding him.

He bought a new binder. He picked up guitar. He played the instrument.                           

                                                   

* * *

 

He’d almost forgotten what it felt like to touch something and know your touch lingered, echoed long after you did. How it felt to resonate.

The first time he tried to play guitar had been in Quebec. The guitar had been bigger than the ones he was used to seeing, neck longer and thinner, shoulders curved in an abstract slope. The spaces between and around her fingers were burnished, the tips rusted to fine flakes. Her thumb seemed to him like a giant scar, red and blistered, it was crusted over brown and red behind a pink bandage. The other had bright sunspots behind her joints, encrusted in layers of sandpaper and peeling plaster. Real.

Jenny always dressed impeccably, stark white and beige pressed skirts or jeans, hair in a high ponytail. “Not so hard, right?”

He blushed, and his breath hitched interrupting the arpeggio. She smelled like mint.

“Yeah,” her face was impossibly close; bubble gum tinted lips chafed.


	3. Chapter 2

Streams of wind crushed the air from green leaves, leaving them brown and rusted as the weeks transitioned into months. Still, Neil felt handicapped, gutted. He’d lost something essential and was now left to tunnel around that absence.

Millport had only grown duller in the months since, red dust and blue skies, the sounds of monopoly and soaps all the more frequent. Millport was sullen, it was a tear between Pheonix and Tucson, a drive through town that knew what it was and did its best to remain so.  In effect, it was not unlike any of the other places he had lived in, broad strokes, but it was heavily overlain with a sense of threat. He was on the far side of the country from his father, but only a state away from his mother’s grave.

The thin nylon strings of his practice guitar felt more like garrotte wires than anything else. So, he stuck to his math homework. Beginning Guitar that day was dull, dulled by the rain, by the fact it was a half day, and further nullified by the math problems he found himself tracing over. He buried plans in his math textbook, plotting points, putting in coordinates. Around him, there was some discussion of college applications, and of early acceptances. That day at least, they had the option not to practice. In front of him, a mass of his peers was sprawled against chairs, and the rare desk, smushed together, trading answers, trading secrets, tossing balls up in the air. Hernandez sat by his desk, eyes trained on his computer, looking up every so often, but mostly oblivious.

"Hey, Neil?" one of the girls said,  "Can I borrow a pencil?"

He looked at her, at her open hand, and shook his head no. "Sorry, this is my only one."

"Oh," she said."Guess I'm fucked then."

He didn't know what to say to that, so he turned around, leaving her to her own plot. He could hear whispered murmurs, "Better luck next time."

"So, Neil," the girl’s friend said, gray eyes trained pointedly on him. "Any plans for the future?" Beyond the blonde dye, her roots showed.

He shrugged. "What do you mean?"

"Any colleges, you looking at?"

"Not really."

She sniggered into her drink. "God, what I would do to leave this shit hole."

"Honestly, I'm surprised," the first girl said.

"It's not something I'm thinking about." He completed his last couple of problems.

She pursed her lips. “Millport so plain. Maybe it's just because we’re so close to Phoenix, but it feels like just the bare minimum of what life could be.”

“Hate it,” the other girl agreed. Neil nodded along with the conversation but didn’t say anything. He liked the town for all the reasons they did not.

Five minutes to the bell ringing, Hernandez stood up from his desk, "Don’t forget guys, conferences are today and tomorrow, I'll be expecting lots of new faces this time around.” His eyes passed through the class, dotting on Neil’s for only a moment before flitting. The gray eyed girl snorted. The class was made up almost entirely of seniors, it was a given they wouldn’t be coming. Additionally, his “parents” his mother an engineer in Tucson, and his father completing CDL training in Tucson) would be too busy to attend, not that they’d need to with his grades good enough as is.

Again, it struck him, how long he had been in Millport, two months, and playing guitar for the entirety of it.

"Hey Neil, you have fifth-period lunch, right? Want to sit with us?" the gray eyed girl said.

He surveyed her open face. "Sorry, I'm kinda busy."

"Oh," she said. "Sorry."

The bell rang, swiftly he tossed everything into his bag, and headed towards his next period class.

He burrowed in and out of blissfully abbreviated class, tunneling out in the end to run. His duffle and all his belongings were securely locked behind him, and in front of him, the track loomed impressive and infinite. With practices canceled, it was all his own. It was ruddy and scruffed up, its divisions blurred, but it was his to mark out.

The question of where to stay loomed heavy in his mind, and he paced around it.

He moved out of his tenth house. Joan Wilson’s cheerful hello one too many mornings and too far in between had him on edge when she wasn’t supposed to notice him or know that he existed. The slowness of Millport was both an asset and a curse. Small towns were easy to monitor when everyone knew everyone, news traveled quickly. It was easy to tell when you were news.

Most nights he migrated between abandoned and for sale houses. Some nights, he burrowed into the spaces beneath the school bleachers, some nights he burrowed into old instrumental closets.

Between midnight and four am, the building was empty. The padlock on the back door was old and rusted, the cameras scant as they were, even more so. His steps were quiet and calculated, one hand gripped around the duffle. In the dark, he could memorize the steps to the music room. He’d tunneled his way past layers of red and gold marching band uniforms, unmarked boxes overflowing with papers, layers of cloth, broken tuba cases and a pile of broken instruments.

The closet, a former janitorial closet, still stunk of ammonia and was one of the lesser used ones. He slept with his knees plunged into his chest, his back flush against the wall.

He awoke to the clatter of a broom, the thump of the tuba cases, and plodding footsteps.

“Hello?” a muffled voice called. He tried to shrink.The broom rattled and rolled along the floor. The footsteps grew louder. There was the sharp click of a key into a lock and indecipherable ramblings. Neil gripped his bag. The lights clunked on, temporarily blinding him. “Neil?” a heavily accented voice asked. He hugged the shadows.

“Christ kid, Christ.” Hernandez turned away gripping his nose. His other hand was flushed in a fist. “How long have you been here?”

Neil’s heart trilled, his shoulders caught somewhere between a repressed scream and a yawn, the reality of the situation irrevocably, undeniably real. “I - I  don’t know.”

Hernandez faced him, his tone firm. “Did a kid do this?”

Neil’s confusion was evident enough.

“Your parents?”

He shook his head. “No I, uh, chose to be here,” he tried to meet his eyes. “I wanted to stay the night.”

“Christ, kid.” Hernandez shook his head. “Christ kid.”

There was a beat of silence. “And how often have you been staying the night?”

Neil could almost taste his pulse. “I’d like to go back to sleep.”  

Hernandez’s eyes traced the cramped quarters before falling on Neil again. “I have a couch in my office. It’s not as cozy as this, but I hope it might suffice.”

“I -,” he paused and struggled to wake his stiff bones. “Okay.” He didn’t want to risk another encounter like this one. Hernandez met his eyes again. “Class starts in two hours.”

Carefully he stood up, his duffle in a tight hold under his arm. Hernandez's office was cubicled into two separate parts, one containing an orange couch and an electric kettle, the other a desk and computer. He tried to curl up on Hernandez’ couch but was thoroughly awake. If he had been with his mother, this would not have happened. If he couldn’t stow away from a high school music teacher, what chance did he hold against his father?

He didn’t sleep. An hour later, there was a light rap against his side of the office. Neil opened his eyes.

“Hi,” Hernandez said, his accent his was less noticeable now, “I don’t know how much time it takes for you to get ready, but now seems like a good time to get ready.”

“Thanks,” Neil said not meeting his eyes. He left as he came, bag in tow nestled under the crook of his arm, knowing that if he turned around Hernandez’s gaze would be trained on him.

 

Hernandez’s class was the first class of the day, and throughout it he tried to keep his head down, going through the motions of the exercises, and later his English homework. His attempts to blend into the background did not stop Hernandez from confronting him later. Again, he was the last out of the room.

“Neil, mind if we talk?” Hernandez stopped him at the door, placing a hand on his shoulder, recoiling when he flinched. _Badly_ , Neil thought.

“I’ll write you a pass,” he said.  Neil didn’t say anything, but nodded, following him. They went into the office portion of his office, where he started a kettle.

“Do you like tea?” he asked.

“Sometimes.” Neil held his hands to stop himself from fidgeting.

“Well, we have earl gray, green, some herbal varieties.”

“I’m good,” he said. “Thanks.”

Hernandez shrugged, “If your mind changes, you know where to find it.” It was quiet except for the thrum of the machine. “So,” Hernandez said again, “How are things at home?”

“They’re fine,” Neil said slowly. “Last night was a one-time thing.”

Hernandez opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. “Why were you there?” The question lingered in the air, and Neil struggled to find room to think. He struggled to find a feasible argument to Hernandez’s extremely valid question.

“I guess that with moving and all, everything was just hectic, and the only place where isn’t is school. So I stayed here.” The kettle went off, and Hernandez stood up to turn it off. He poured himself a cup of tea, and with some hesitation, Neil did as well. “I should get going,” he said.

Without hesitation, Hernandez ripped a notepad from his desk and wrote him a pass. “Neil, if you need anything, my door’s always open.”

He nodded mutely, taking the slip of paper.

Situations like that scattered themselves in the weeks and months to come. Frequent enough that they grew expected.

* * *

 

Bit by bit, despite his more apt senses, Neil found himself gravitating towards and around his instrument. He told himself not get attached, that he wouldn’t get attached. It would be a last breath, his last request before death row.

It became an escape.

He practiced after school, before school, during his lunch periods too (music was a nourishment in and of itself; one he had a deficiency of).

He ran from onslaughts of synths and loud pop music, the chattering of music students and couples intertwined on Hernandez’s two sofas, from (towards) the ghosts of his past, from less malleable orders. The feeling of arpeggios beneath his fingers reminded him of his mother’s gentle melodies, of his father when he had been a figure of reverence rather than fear.

The small practice room became an oasis, where he could hack at his past and craft the person he wanted to be.

At one point in time, the small space has been a closet and still contained a leaking sink and cubby holes that had been repurposed as instrument containers. Propped in the corner there was an old piano that students still hashed out on, and extra guitars.

The heavy scrape of tearing wood on wood interrupted his chromatic scale. Hernandez stood outside, clipboard in hand, the outlines of his wrinkles especially prominent. “Would you like to be in jazz band?”

Neil choked on a chuckle, “Excuse me?” and wondered if this was just another manifestation of his charity. Despite being a pretty recent development, the Millport Jazz Band had a reputation of surprising decency. It was a ragtag ensemble made up of novices and try hards, people trying too hard to leave their sleepy town, and the children of parents who wanted to hear the dreary intonations of their youth. Some said determined, he said desperate.

“I think you have something, Neil. I think you are something.”

“So is Sally Hayes.” Neil put the guitar down.

“I’m not asking her. I’m asking you,” Hernandez said pointedly.

“And I have every right to decline.”  Neil barred his arms over his chest.

“Neil, I’ve seen you play. Hell, I’ve heard your late night practices. Tell me you don’t care.”

“And yet - I don’t care,” Neil said with a flourish of his hands. The muscles loosened from the pit of his abdomen, the slight of his wrists. “I’ll join. On one condition.” Hernandez nodded. “The condition that you won’t report my sleeping situation.”

The cut of his jaw was tense, his eyes heavy browed and heavily furled bore into him. “As a teacher, my job is to keep you safe.”

Neil inspected his growing callouses. “Not exactly my problem.”

“Consider jazz band. It might open some doors.” He knew enough about jazz that he didn’t have to consider the option. He knew it was pointless.

Neil stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I don’t even listen to jazz music.”

Hernandez shook his head. “I didn’t expect you to.”

Neil Josten was the essence of mediocrity. The thought of Hernandez feeling some sort of pity for him stirred the sediment at the pit of his stomach, leaving him thoroughly unsettled.  

“As a student, I hold a right to privacy.”

“But public spaces aren’t a part of that. If anything happens, that’s on my conscience”

“No,” Neil shook his head. “I can take care of myself.” He grabbed his guitar to lock it up. The period was going to end soon and he would not want to be late for his next class.

* * *

 

Though then he may not have listened to jazz music, it was something that he loved. Jazz was language, an exchange of call and response; a language of movement, of swing, of alternating time; of improvisation.

It was the sound he grew up hearing, from the cracks of his parent’s bedroom, the sound he was expected to mimic at his first recital. It was the sound of his mixed roots, the sound of migration, the distorted waves through which popular music sailed through. Jazz, jazz, it was the epicenter of his being.

Neil and Hernandez made their deal.  

* * *

 

A few months later, he found himself in a dark pair of jeans and his cleanest white shirt, hands shaking around a thin tremulous trail of smoke. His hands were spliced open from finger to palm, all nerves and veins exposed. The echo of ghostly applause, and the hum of his mother’s disapproval resonated flat in his mind. The smoke did nothing for his nerves.

None of this was true. Neil’s Jostens parents were engineers and Neil Josten couldn’t give less of a damn about the concert. Jazz band was just a ploy for art credits; a means to an end.

The lie hung heavy over him, coloring everything in thick arid gray fog. He let the cigarette burn to the filter. The creak of the metal door startled him from his thoughts, but a quick glance upwards revealed only Mr. Hernandez, still dressed in suit and tie. His shoes reflected the dying ash. He plopped down next to him, and held out his hand. Neil handed him the cigarette, and Mr. Hernandez ground it out with his heel.

“Still?” He asked. Neil grunted. “I thought you said they’d try this time.”

Neil stood up. “I’ll call them with the details.”

“Not so fast, someone’s here to see you.”

Neil raised a brow at that, and dread festered and churned in his stomach. Millport was too idle town, too active in gossip, and he was too keen an observer. Neil should have heard about his visitor before Hernandez did. He sighed and rubbed a fresh callus to avoid Hernandez's stare and followed him to the music room’s back entrance. A tall burly man sat on the couch Hernandez kept in the corner of his room, arms slung around his gray jeans, black shirt rolled up to expose tribal tattoos.

“I don’t know you.” Neil said.

Hernandez shot Neil a stern look.

“I’m David Wymack, director of music at Palmetto State University. I’d like you to join our studio jazz band.” His voice was deep and raspy; a  note that hinged somewhere on C3, but not quite, fluctuating up and down depending on the syllable.

Neil stared.

Hernandez supplied, “A few months ago, I met Mr. Wymack at a workshop. Recently, he contacted me saying he needed a guitarist for his jazz band. So, I sent him some of your recordings.”

“You did, _what?”_

“I would have told your parents, but they didn’t answer my calls,” Hernandez said pointedly.

“They were busy.”

“It's already stupid late in the year for me to be here. Our last guitarist … had technical difficulties.” Wymack said.

“So, do I.” Neil tapped his arms in sharp ¾ measures.

“My studio band is a second chance at things. It’s for people who might not have anywhere else to go.” A beat. “I hear that you sleep here sometimes.”

“Ohh,” he nodded slowly, the sound filling the confines of words and syllables. “I’m a charity case.” He guessed that this was Hernandez’s attempt at looking out for him. Too bad Neil Josten was nearly finished.

He was just en route to leave when there rang a familiar note, that stopped him in his tracks, a sound he hadn’t heard since childhood, since his mother decided that the generic pop stations were too dangerous to listen to, a sound that hinged on dream and nightmare - G3,  words sharply enunciated, vowels pronounced and somewhat rounded: “I recommended you.” The words were almost sung, notes that blurred the lines and spaces of what was and what was not possible.

He emerged from the practice room, as though ripped from a magazine cover, still glossy. He, in his slacks and starched shirt and buoyant hair, made the Millport music room feeble and drab. The two could not exist on the same plane. Neil could not be their point of intersection.

The last time he had been in the same room as Kevin Day, a man had been minced finely into over a thousand pieces. The floor had been flushed in a deep layer of blood, and Kevin’s face has been a pale, nearly comical, frozen mask of horror. The beige tarp covering the instruments had been sprayed in a thick, almost squirming layer of blood.

Kevin Day was a musical protege, only son of the illustrious Kaleigh Day. He played no fewer than fourteen instruments, and had released his first album when he was ten. After his mother died, he was adopted by Tetsuji Moriyama, head of Edgar Allan University, and raised alongside his nephew Riko Moriyama as a duo up until last spring when he broke his dominant hand in a skiing accident. He emerged a few weeks later as assistant director of the Palmetto State  studio jazz band. It was projected that he would never play an instrument again.

Neil’s heart rate was in sync with the man’s screams.

He stood, suspended in sleep paralysis, his muscles locked, his thoughts frantic; paralyzed within a dream. His breath caught in his throat, and then he broke for the exit. There were red lights, then a blur, the sound of wood meeting flesh, a sharp crunch - his spine splitting in half - and a crackle.  His legs crumpled under him, and his lungs lodged themselves the remains of his spine.

The world popped into muffled clarity, amber, and a chuckle before cracking into stark focus.

Nothing was actually broken.

The world righted itself into a smattering of steps (a raised staccato), and he rose up on shaky legs, leaning against the staircase. He should have known better: Kevin Day was never alone and Kevin Day went nowhere without his guard dog. He glared fiercely into the smiling face of his assailant and realized the choice of weapon was a sousaphone case.

“Christ, Andrew. This is why we can’t have nice things.” Wymack said, propping Neil up.

“If we wanted him, then he wasn’t so nice, to begin with,” Andrew smiled.

“Are you okay Neil?” Wymack asked.

“I’m fine.” He leaned on the railing, glad he hadn’t fractured anything. “You signed Kevin Day.” he wheezed.

“And Kevin Day’s signing you,” Kevin said from beyond him.

“This can’t be happening.”

“It is,” Kevin said.

“I’m not signing anything.”

“Is it your parents?” Wymack asked.

“It’s nobody, and none of your business,” Neil muttered.

“Here us out. For just a few minutes,” Wymack said.

“Why me?” he growled. “There are millions of guitarists out there.”

“We listened to them, and we decided we want you,” Wymack said.

“I’m not playing on the same stage as Kevin Day.”

“You will,” Kevin said.

“We’re not leaving until you say yes,” Wymack added.

“Your file was deplorable, but your recordings made it clear – you play like you have everything to lose,” Kevin said.

“Is that why?”  Neil paused, remembering his finger printed, sweat stained journal, letting the relief sink in, before adding: “I’m still not joining your ensemble.” He grabbed his bag from where it had fallen.

“What?” Kevin asked, crestfallen.

Andrew laughed.

“No, that’s your answer.” His cheeks smarted. He turned to Hernandez, “See you tomorrow,” then walked out the door.


	4. Chapter 3

The last two weeks of school were awkward and disjointed. During finals, days were short and the concision was blunted by the disappointed looks and comments made by Hernandez afterward. After graduation, Neil Josten did not return to Millport.

He traveled east to South Carolina.

* * *

 

The end of May had bled into Colorado wheat farms, rivulets of South Dakota diners in June, July puddles of Chicago book stores. Transience meant that sometimes he forgot that he “was,” who he was. The substance of Neil Josten, of Stefan Durand, of Alex Schneider, was as malleable as water, but not nearly as constant. He arrived at Palmetto near the middle of August.

Truth be told: he didn’t need to be there. He already had a job secured at a local garage.

Truth be told: he was kind of dead without an instrument.

The Palmetto cafe was a hole in the wall smeared with orange paint. Despite its small frame, it was deceptively airy inside, soaking up the sun from the eastern entrance and its glass front, it felt like sinking in layers of sunlight and cheese, like sinking into a target, like being blinded by stage lights.  

There were three exits if you counted the entrance.  The back wall consisted of a large counter and a display of sweets and specials. Their prices were printed in round bubble letters and wide cursive orange chalk on a large blackboard decorated by large drawings of foxes and instruments. In the western corner, an old grand piano was propped up on a wide platform, scratched up and aged with wisdom lines. There was an effort in tearing his eyes from it.

Even with few patrons, the air was livid with the tang of coffee and the sweetness of baked goods. If he closed his eyes, he could almost recall the smell of roadside diners, flashing street lights, the momentary recollection of what a “home” was supposed to be. A sitcom level of clarity and order.

A girl was lit fluorescent against the glass. Her white pastel tinged braids caught fire matched against the sun. She was engrossed in a small spiral notebook. Outside, a man in a yellow smock smoked. The girl looked up and waved and he nodded curtly before he pivoted swiftly towards the manager's office.

He was not supposed to be here. The statement was as true as it was redundant. The cafe was only fifteen minutes away from the university. The University Kevin Day attended.

The manager of the cafe was a stout woman with barely an inch over Neil. Her skin was dark and scarred with laugh lines. There was a crown of gray curls around her the thick salt and pepper tresses plaited around her head. The skin around her eyes was crinkled in an unsung smile. She wore a red and gold tunic over her jeans.

“Hello,” he said. He took her hand for a handshake. “My name is Neil Josten. I saw a job opening out front?”

“Indeed,” the older woman nodded, she gave his hand a tight squeeze before releasing it, “I’m Abby Winfield. Neil short for anything?” Her voice was deep and rustic.

He shook his head. “Just Neil.”

“Tell me about yourself, Just Neil,” she said with a faint smile.

“I’m nineteen, and I’m from Millport, Arizona.”

“Millport? A friend of mine went there recently.”

“Oh?” The comment was like a nail digging into a scab, he could a warning sharp pinch on his wrist.

“Why did you travel so far?” she asked, sitting back in her seat.

“There wasn’t much left for me.”

“That’s the case for a lot of the people who work here,” she sighed. “The Palmetto Cafe becomes a home for many.”

He nodded. “Why is there so much orange?”“A former employee thought it was a good way to garner attention. Orange is a striking color. It’s hard to forget about a hole in the wall when its glaring back at you.”

“A former employee thought it was a good way to garner attention. Orange is a striking color. It’s hard to forget about a hole in the wall when it's glaring back at you.”

He said nothing to that.

“Would this be first time working in a cafe?” Abby asked.

“No.”

“What times would you be available?” She showed him the schedule and the available shifts, and he checked off the four to nine column.

“On a scale of 1 to 10, how well do you handle stress?”

He remembered his mother dismembering a leak. “A solid 10.”

“Do you work well with other people?” Her teeth flashed silver.

“Extremely.”

“I hope you like music.” After they completed some paperwork, she handed him an orange apron. “Over the school year, Palmetto State Studio band performs here.”

He couldn’t trust himself to close a palm around it.

* * *

 

Though he stated that it would not be his first time working at a cafe, Abby still insisted that someone show him the ropes. He arrived soon after his first job. The girl from before was now behind the counter, an orange smock tied around her waist, an orange bandana around her hair. She smiled sweetly, but her eyes were grave. “Hello, I’m Renee.”

“Hi,” he said, looking at the coffee machine. “Neil.”

“It’s not too difficult to make the drinks here.” She ran through some of the most popular beverages, easing her way past levers, bottles, and shakers. She seemed almost suspended in a world of brown and silver accents. In comparison, he felt uncoordinated and jerky. He had to practice making the drinks several times before he made a drink worthy of her nod of satisfaction. When he had, they took a short break, leaning against the counter.

“What do you think of Palmetto so far?” she asked, stirring a cup of her own.

He sipped his own, an overly saccharine green tea latte. “First time living in a college town.”

“You’re not going to school here?”

He shook his head, “College isn’t really my thing.”

She nodded. “It’s a lovely campus.”

“Lovely enough to die for, right?” He took a sip of his drink.

She took a sip of hers. “Different people have different levels of tolerance.”

“Can’t deny that it's an unusually common occurrence here.”

“Fear’s an obstacle to life.”

* * *

 

**Eight Years Prior:**

Nathaniel woke up to a harsh whisper in a blue, blue world. Normally, Mary spoke in an alto range between a G3 and a D4, but the raspy, harsh “Abram, get up,” was more of an E6. The nails digging into his shoulders were obstinate, mirroring the knives nestled in her breath.  The Aegean night time bled into waxing nebulous indigos and navy shadows.

Nathaniel and his mother were in a cab. The profile of his mother’s face (what he could see of it, under her hat and sunglasses) was a barred pattern, half flavescent and half shadowed by the streetlights. The atmosphere was heavy with caffeine and mothballs with undertones of something lucid and metal. Eventually, they reached their stop.

When Mary was anxious or nervous, her vowels opened up and her “r”s were chaffed off by her accent.

She paid the cabbie quickly, her accent swallowed her “thank you”, and lodged an incumbency on his hand.

* * *

 

Somehow Neil Josten became a car mechanic from nine to three, and a writer (and an occasional cook) at the Palmetto Cafe in South Carolina from four to nine. His studio apartment, despite being small, felt too large, consisting mainly of his suitcase, a mattress, some sheets, and the uncomfortable revelation of a kitchen/bathroom. A guitar that Hernandez had gifted him laid enclosed a foot away from his bed.  

* * *

 

Joe’s Car Lot was layered in thick, sweltered layers of heat. The car fumes felt almost solid. Neil’s shirt felt almost stitched to his skin, even with the fan on. His mind drifted to the Foxhole’s large windows, its air conditioning, his pitiful exposed mattress. In spite of the alertness the season required, he felt languid and lazy. The thought of the work ahead of him, of the vehicles to be washed, waxed, vacuumed, air compressed and repainted, of engines and engine cylinders to be replaced, and everything on top of that made him exhausted. He curled up on the beige couch Joe kept in the break/waiting room and stared at the ceiling.

Joe’s gruff voice fell, deep and gruff, resonating through the wavering air: “Looks you’ve got quite a problem there.”

“How long will it take to fix.” His breath caught -   Kevin Day.  

“It depends” Joe drawled, “we’re having one of our newer guys on it.”

“It's imperative that we have it done soon.”

“It’ll take a couple of months, give or take,” he drawled.  

“A _couple_?”

“You should be used to it. How long did it take the last time you guys were here?”

There was a laugh, a hollow crippling sound that gave way to something loud and piercing. “It’s only reasonable then to see who’ll be working on my car, right?”

Joe said, “Extremely reasonable, but you store more than just a gasket.”

There was a curse and an indignation before they deliberated the cost of the replacement. Kevin would pay. Neil closed his eyes when he heard the syncopated steps; Kevin’s sharp and momentous, Andrews quiet and measured. He counted the seconds before they opened the door -- _un, deux, trois, quatre_ \--

“We meet again!” Andrew cackled.

Kevin choked, “You-”

Joe shut the door. “You know them?”

Neil opened his eyes and slung one leg over the front of the couch. “Yeah”

“We’re all buddies,” Andrew said.

“The best.” Neil groaned, “Can you get out of my life now?”

“Not when you’re making so much of an effort to enter ours,” Andrew said with a grin. Neil sprung from the couch and slammed the door shut.

Joe followed him out. “What was that about?”

“Nothing,” Neil answered, “I’ll get started on the car.”

The car was a leaking, smoking, crumpled wreck. The bumper was a ripple sculpture and the gasket looked like a plastic soda container ripped apart. It was thoroughly cracked in the webs between where the “cans” would be, pistons popped off, and LH rings removed.  It really would take over a month to fix, minus the added time of disassembling and rearranging the top of the engine.

“What’s the diagnosis, doc?” Andrew said.

“You’d save money buying a new one.” 

“Or by not letting Nicky near it,” Kevin added.

“And let you drive instead?” Kevin stared him down. Neil pursed his lips. “It won’t be pretty, but I can see what I can do in a few weeks.” The sooner he got it done the better.

The sides of his mouth felt tart as Andrew and Kevin left. He pressed his nails into his palms and reminded himself: Palmetto could only _be_ a rest stop, or a day dream – an impossible reality. Middle ground. He couldn’t take their deal, but maybe he could rest in its idealness.

He could have stayed in Millport (gray buildings, tattered paint and muddy black for sale signs; a place for leaving) or he could have gone further north (white snow; blood poppies; perspiring pistol).

* * *

 

Neil was almost late to his second day at the Palmetto Cafe. There was an hour between his shifts at the car lot and at the cafe and he spent more than half of it working on the catastrophe that was Andrew's car. Joe had warned him - it was a lost cause for a man richer than him, and there was so much more to do. There was a hole blown through the engine and hood, the headlights had been popped out. The seats had been singed to dust.

A bomb had set off in their vehicle, and they were asking him to rebuild them a car. He didn’t have the time to help them.

He sped past minivans, sedans, convertibles and gray concrete. Cars blared behind him and there was a blur of lights and traffic signals and sunlight volleying off of glossy veneers. From the parking lot he half sprinted into the back room, where he shoved his bag into his locker, grabbed a change of clothes and ran to the bathroom where he redressed and washed his hands of left over grime.

 

The break room consisted of a few benches, one wall of lockers, three pictures of employees, and some cheesy quotes - “live, love, laugh” and “live every day like it's your last.” There was a stack of instruments in a corner, and pictures of the cafe throughout the ages. Near the entrance was a table laden with napkins, sanitizer, and lotion.

Renee was already there, a silver cross swung like a pendulum over her orange apron.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hi.” He grabbed some napkins with the dual purpose of avoiding her eyes and wiping his hands.

“Bad day?” 

“It could have been worse,” he said, checking his nails for left over grime.

She nodded. “Do you need a ponytail?”

“I’m fine, I’ve got my own.” He fished a blue rubber band from his back pocket and pulled his hair back.

The door slammed open. A blonde sashayed break room, a storm of platinum curls, steel plated heels, and gray maddening eyes. Allison Reynolds, the (allegedly) estranged heir of Reynold Instruments Co. She made headlines several years ago for self-harm resulting from bulimia and over work. Her face had been pasted on newspapers nationwide. She plopped down on the side of the couch closest to Neil. “Survived the summer.”

“As did you,” Renee implied

“Almost died on the plane ride here.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder and spared Neil a glance. “Enough about me,” she crossed her legs and leaned forward. “What great acts of charity did St. Teresa make over the summer?”

Renee smiled thinly. “I wouldn’t go so far as to liken myself to Mother Teresa.” 

“No,” Allison agreed. “Her clinics were like actual torture chambers, right?”

“Not exactly torture chambers, but -”

Neil went outside and took a moment to decompress. He fiddled with his pack of cigarettes, and after some time watched the smoke ebb away.

If he closed his eyes he could almost imagine that he wasn’t on his own.

His mother would know what to do about Andrew and Kevin. Run, she’d urge him. Manage your risk. He knew that Kevin didn’t recognize him, but Andrew would prove to be another beast entirely.  Neil pulled his knees closer to his chest.

The door swung open and banged against its frame. Allison leaned against the wall and slammed her heel into the wall.

“Abby’s, or Coach’s?” she asked conversationally.

“Excuse me?”

“Are you one of Abby’s rejects, or Wymack’s?”

“You would know a lot about that, right?”

“What are you suggesting?”

He shrugged. “Only that it’s not very nice to call people rejects.”

“So what should I call you?” she asked slyly.

“Neil.” He ground out his cigarette and looked her straight in the eye. “Neil Josten.”

“So, Neil Josten, why are you moping around outside?”

For whatever reason, he felt increasingly uneasy with her presence. “I’m not moping,” he spat.

“ _That_ is evidence to the fact. So why are you moping?”

He sighed. “I’m _not,”_ he insisted.

She raised a brow and sighed. “So which are you? Abby’s or Wymack’s?”

“Ask them if you’re so interested,” he said to the wall.

“Adorable,” she said.

He stood up. “If you’re going to waste my time you might as well buy something.”


	5. Chapter 4

He fell into a routine with the Foxhole Café, into short conversations with Allison and Renee, into slight adjustments of his brewing, slight adjustments to his schedule. He found himself making more and more time for it, in between his cup of tea after a morning jog, and between his afternoon shift.

The Foxhole called to him because there, in spite of the target on his back, in spite of its brightness, it hid him in plain sight. But more than that, he loved the instruments, the ones Wymack stored in the break room. They were mellowed and glossy with age and care. Up against the back wall, a guitar leaned against a keyboard. For a moment, his hands floated over the keys, but then he pulled back.

“You play?” a murmur. He nearly jumped out of his skin. Renee stood by him, an indent between her eyebrows. Her hands were folded.

He backed away from the piano. “Not really.”

“I’m sorry for startling you.”

“It’s alright.” He shouldn’t have been touching it anyway. He eyed the door warily.

“Have you ever wanted to?” _He did now._

He shrugged. “I used to play.”

“I do,” she said, sitting on the bench. Her fingers ghosted the keys like his had before. “I could teach you if you’d like.”

“I’m fine. Thanks.” He looked down at his hands. At the instruments. There wouldn’t be much time to divulge in them anyway.

“I understand how hard it can be adjusting to a new place. If you ever want some help or just someone to talk to, I’m here, alright?”

He nodded because his mouth felt too dry for words. “I’ll - I’ll  keep it in mind.” She smiled and squeezed his fist.

 

* * *

 

Andrew and Kevin showed up around the same time they had the day before while Neil toiled with the remains of their engine. Their rental was shiny, black, and unblemished. Andrew leaned against its front, while Kevin walked ahead of him.

“How’s the prognosis, doc?” Andrew called. Neil didn’t respond in favor of deconstructing his engine.

“Why do you do this?” Kevin asked bluntly. Even from behind, he could hear the sneer in Kevin’s voice.  

“We’re not all born rich.”

“Why are you here?” Kevin didn’t chew his words before spitting them out.

“Change of scenery,” Neil grunted.

“Do Mommy and Daddy know that you’re here?” Andrew said.

He turned around sharply. “Excuse me?”

Andrew’s grin nearly tore his cheeks in half. “You don’t add up. You travel 2,680 miles to become a car mechanic, but not to go to school?”

“Maybe I don’t want to go to college.”  

Andrew laughed. “I read your file, Neil. Won a couple of contests, member of the music honor society. But your parents were never there.”

“Were yours?”

“What are you running from?” He paused.

Neil simmered, he could feel himself lose grasp of the wrench. He dropped the wrench. “You had no right to read my file.”

“You don’t add up.”

“I’m not a math problem.”

“But I’ll still solve you.”  

He clenched his fist. Andrew laughed, hefting himself up from the car and towards the tiny office space, where patrons were _supposed_ to wait. “I didn’t read your file. Wymack told us about you on our way there.”

Kevin turned to him, his lip curled, and he gave him a thorough once over. He stared openly at Neil’s grease covered hands and shirt. “You could be doing so much more.”

“And you could be playing Carnegie Hall - oh wait.”

Kevin tucked his hands in his letterman and clenched his teeth. “I don’t know what kind of phase you’re going through, but our offer still stands.”

“Kevin,” he said slowly. “The school year has already begun.”

“But there’s always next semester,” Kevin said. _He wouldn’t be there next semester._ “Out of every state you could’ve traveled to, out of every town, you landed here, this is foolishness.”

“So is this job,” he muttered.

“You wouldn’t need to work if you joined us.”

“Why do you even care?” Neil sucked in his teeth, pulling on screws.

“Don’t be difficult.”

“Too late.”

“I care because I know you do, and I know that once you stop being stubborn, you can be something.”

“There are more experienced players out there.”

“And I can train you.” He looked back up at Kevin, a little way off, so that none of the grime would reach his pinstriped shirt.

“It’s just a hobby,” Neil said. “I’m not looking for a career.”

Kevin looked about as pressed as his shirt, but before he could answer, Andrew, emerged from the office area, no worse for wear, tapping his watch. “Time’s up.”

“We’ll talk about this,” Kevin declared, sliding into the passenger seat. _And the answer,_ he thought (hoped), _would be no._

Renee, Neil had decided, was a collection of contradictions arranged into a carefully constructed mask. She was a devout Catholic but was also known to go out drinking. She dressed conservatively always in high collars and pale colors - white, lilac, blue - but she dyed her hair bright strikingly artificial colors. There were ripples beneath her smooth exterior, and sometimes incongruous elements stuck out.  She made Neil uncomfortable.

“Again?” Renee asked as Neil tied his apron. He nodded tersely.

“Just a difficult customer.” He grabbed his clipboard. Renee gave him a questioning glance but returned to her respective area. A couple hours passed where Neil wrangled with the memory of his encounter with Kevin and Andrew, weighing the pros and cons of deciding when to flee. Now at least, was too soon, too suspicious. Allison returned the shop at six, in a storm somewhat similar to her first encounter. Her order was layered and complicated, a string of knotted ingredients that threatened to overflow even in her venti sized cup.

“Today is not my fucking day,” she grumbled.

“What happened?” Renee asked.

“I took my car in for an engine problem, and I think the mechanics managed to fuck it more than before.”

Neil dropped a plate of quiche in front of a patron and turned back to their table. "I could try to look at it for you?”

“Really?” Allison gave him a careful accessing glance.

"It’s nothing. My shift ends at 9. Should I meet you, or do you want to meet me?” He glanced at Renee, who smiled in kind.

“I’ll meet you,” Allison said looking at both of them. Esteban rang the bell signaling his leave for a plate of Belgian waffles.

By nine Allison came, and Neil had ideas about the car’s problem - it didn’t seem so much permanent as it did periodical. There was either a problem with the battery, starter, fuel pump, or the security system. He tinkered with his tool box.

“How long have you been fixing cars?”

Since he was 13 and his mother told him to watch her hotwire one.

“Six years.” He pulled up the hood of her white Porsche.

“Must save your girlfriend a lot of cash.”

“Don’t have one.”

“Disinterested, or unable to?” The question was innocent enough and she’d said it innocently enough, but her eyes bore into his own, deep enough that he thought she could see the blue past the cheap lenses.  

“Disinterested,” he said finally. He hadn’t been able to look at a girl since his mother beat the attraction out of him.

“Boyfriend?”

He checked her battery. “I don’t swing.” She hummed something. It took him about an hour to fix her car. He didn’t charge.

For a moment after she left, it was quiet. For a moment, even the dull drones of traffic were silenced, and then - then the painful crackling of leaves. He looked up, expecting the wind, instead finding something much worse - Andrew.

“For a man who doesn’t swing, you sure do keep a dedicated fan journal,” he said cheerfully.

Neil felt the blood rush from his face. His ears popped. “Pardon?”

“For a man who doesn’t swing, you keep a dedicated fan journal,” Andrew repeated, enunciating each syllable.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Neil said numbly.

“Oh, I think you do.” Andrew moved closer from his place under the maple tree, from a few yards to a couple feet. Neil found himself cemented in place. “Who are you?”

“Neil Josten.”

“Who are you really?”

Somehow, Neil couldn’t answer that question. Somehow, Neil had never been prepared to. “What do you want?” he whispered hoarsely. He wondered how much Andrew had seen, how much he had decoded.

“The truth,” Andrew said like Neil could afford to give it away so easily.

“I’m a - a fan.” His voice cracked and he tried not to cringe. “I grew up listening to Kevin and Riko’s  music.”

“Wrong answer,” Andrew ticked his tongue. “If you were such a big ‘fan,’ then why would you so adamantly refuse to make music with him? Wouldn’t this be the big break of your dreams? Performing next to your favorite artist? Seeing him on a daily basis? Unless, unless there’s another reason you have all of this information on him?”

“There isn’t.”

“I don’t. Believe. You.” Another three steps closer. Neil took another three steps back.

“Neil, are you even legal?” It was a statement, said innocently, and maybe with different words almost sweetly.

He laughed, relieving the tension in his throat. “Are you in a position to ask that?”

“Is Alex? How about Stefan? Chris?”

“No one will believe you,” he said.

“Not me,” Andrew nodded in agreement, “But golden boy Kevin? Different story.”

“What do you want?” he asked again.

“I want you to come with me to Eden’s Twilight next Friday.” He stepped closer, and this time there was no room to step back. “If you don’t,”  he whispered, “I will find out who you are, and take care of you, myself.” For a moment, there was the cold sensation of metal against his throat, then nothing. Andrew brought the knife back into his sleeve and walked back to his car.  With shaking hands, Neil set down his bag, which had since become unfamiliar, where there had once been cigarettes, there was now, nothing.

 

* * *

 

Friends of Renee came again the second day, a couple - a girl with brutally buzzed hair and a deep roasted glow to her skin, that starkly contrasted the tall spikes and lighter skin of her boyfriend. Neil stifled a groan and tried for his most polite smile. The entire lot left an overly saccharine feeling in his mouth. “Hi I’m Neil, and I’ll be taking your order today. What would you like to start?”

“Ice tea, sweetened?” the girl asked.

“You’re Neil?” the boy asked. He nearly dwarfed the table, broad shouldered, robust and at least 6’6. “I’m Matt.” When he stuck out his hand for a shake, Neil realized his arms were covered in faded track marks.

“What would you like to start with, Matt?” There was an unintentionally aggressive slant to his voice, the result of sleep deprivation and not having the energy to put up a happy front.

“A lemonade?” He wrote both orders down.

“You fixed Allison’s car right?”  Matt asked.

“Yeah?” Neil said.

“I’ve been having some trouble with mine, would you mind taking a look at it?”

Neil looked up from the clipboard. A yes built its way up behind his teeth, but instead, he said, “Not for free.”

“I get that,” Matt said smiling brightly, “Where should I bring it?”

“The lot here is fine.” He could feel his mother shifting in her watery grave.

“Great.” He clapped Neil’s shoulder. Neil flinched, hiding his reaction in his turn towards the next table where elderly diabetics enquired about the sweetness of their “sweet love” packets being too sweet. When he returned, Dan was looking intently at a page of music and Matt was drumming the edge of the table.

“Would you guys like anything else?” After a pause, he added, “for your order?”

Matt wanted the crab cake and frogmore stew.

“Thanks, Neil, it means a lot,” Dan said. Her gratitude and the double entendre of “lot” and “car lot” started a smirk out him.

At nine Matt arrived saying something about Dan having practice, and Neil examined their vehicle. Neil wanted to get the job done in silence, but Matt had a tendency to extrapolate. He filled the air with white noise. Neil caught bits and pieces about where the car was from, its make, how he was never really good with it. Mostly his words were crowded out by Neil’s own reverie about Andrew and Kevin and their car troubles.

“It’s been like this since last year some Raven fans wrecked it,” Matt finished. “So uhh, where are you from?”

“Arizona.”

“Wow,” Matt said, “that’s pretty far. Why the big move?”

“Wanted a change of pace,” Neil mumbled. “You’re in the studio band, right? What instrument do you play?”

“Trumpet. You?”

“Starting guitar,” he said. “But for the longest time, recorder was the only thing I was good at.”

Matt chuckled.

“I never thought that music could be something I could do.”  

“That’s what I thought too at first,” Matt said. “Theory is impossible, and a big guy like me, everyone said should be doing sports.”

“More football, less marching band,” Neil supplied from under the hood.

“Exactly,” Matt nodded, “but then in middle school, I joined marching band and I haven’t gone back since.”

“But you’re not in marching band?”

“My mom,” Matt said. “She, uh, convinced me to do it, senior year, and Wymack caught wind of it.”

“Must have been a strong breeze.” After a pause, Neil added, “Who’s your favorite musician?”

Matt perked up. “The USC Trojans, definitely, ten out of ten. They’re performing here in a few weeks. They’re incredible.”

Neil looked at him blankly. “Never heard of them.”

“You’re kidding.”

Neil’s silence spoke volumes about his seriousness.

“No way.” Neil turned back to the vehicle.

“No way” he breathed. He chuckled behind his fist. “Kevin - as in Kevin, ‘Queen of the Raven’s Nest’ Day, practically worships them. Speaking of which - I recommend going to the  Palmetto State Winter Concert - you probably haven’t heard the best of us, if anything, but that’s probably only because most people _haven’t_ heard us.” From his pockets, he unearthed a pair of castanets and tossed them between his hands. “This year we could actually be something this year. I feel it.”

“Shameless advertising?”

“Consider it a lesson in culture.”

“I decided not to go to college for a reason,” Neil said dryly.

“Oh yeah?” He raddled the clamp like instruments in a 12/8 signature, along to the sound of passing traffic.

“Your batteries are dead by the way.”

Matt hummed something indiscriminate.

“But if you’re fine with waiting, I could replace them now.”

“And how much would that be?”Matt had stopped playing the instruments and was now digging through his wallet, accounting for his change.

“I can do it for free,” Neil said slowly. “Don’t worry about it.”


	6. Chapter 5

Neil was in a charitable mood during his early morning shift. Light drifted down from the shop awning onto the counter, and he found himself humming Christmas carols as he wiped down the tables and cleaned out the coffee machines and kettles, and found his good mood interrupted by the jingling of wind chimes.

“You,” Kevin said tersely.

“Me,” Neil said evenly.

“Long time no see,” Andrew laughed dryly.

“Hello Andrew, what would you like to order?” Renee asked.

Andrew rattled off two incessantly long and layered order types.

“How long have you worked here?” Kevin ordered, crossing in front of him, to the front of the table.

Neil shrugged as he moved to the next one. “I wasn’t aware that it was your business.”

“You trust Abby, but not Wymack? Shame.” Andrew shook his head.

“You know each other?” Renee asked.

“Neil’s our new bestie, I’m surprised he didn’t tell you?” Andrew gasped, feigning surprise.

“I’m fixing his car,” Neil supplied.

“He’s fixing everyone’s cars,” Andrew said conversationally, “A one man repair shop.”

Renee added two generous servings of cream to one of the drinks. “I’ve heard.”

“I bet I know something that you don’t,” Andrew said conspiratorially. Neil deigned him a glance. “He has a deep seated hatred for Kevin.”

“I don’t _hate_ Kevin,” Neil said. Renee passed Andrew his drink and started on the second.

“That’s not what he told me,” Andrew said.

“Andrew,” Kevin warned.

Neil returned the wash rag and Clorox to storage. “That would be $10.” They exchanged bills and quarters.

“See you soon,” Andrew called cheerfully. Kevin put a pair of earplugs into his ears.

 

* * *

 

Later that day, as always, they came to inspect their car. Neil leaned against it and fished Andrew’s keys out of his pocket. He grated it against the vehicle’s black finish. Andrew stepped out of the rental, and Kevin wasn’t far behind.

“Good as new!” Andrew exclaimed.

“I thought you couldn’t drive on medication,” he called back. He juggled Andrew’s keys in his hands.

“I thought that you’d be wasting away in Arizona. My whole life has been a lie!” He pantomimed a faint against his car. “Tell me, do you believe in fate?”

“No,” Neil said, still juggling the keys.

“Neither do I.” His smile was thin and sharp.

“Do you believe in luck?”

Neil glanced at Kevin. “Only the bad kind.”

“I haven’t changed my mind,” Kevin said.

“Neither have I,” Neil replied.

“Prey should be less afraid to die,” Andrew said. “You only have a week to test your luck.”

“I hope Joe charges extra,” Neil muttered. Whatever minor damage Neil had done was unremarkable in comparison to the reparations he still had to make. Kevin gave him a concerned look. Neil returned it with a middle finger.

 

* * *

 

Neil wasn’t supposed to have friends. It started with small talk with Dan and Matt: a “hey” or “what’s up?” that morphed into album suggestions by Matt - “He doesn’t know who the Trojans are Dan. The _Trojans.” “_ Not everyone cares about those sorts of things.” - morphed into questions about the Foxes on Neil’s part - “The Foxhole? What kind of name is that?” “Coach’s idea - a foxhole is a hole dug  by soldiers during trench warfare as shelter against attack, and in a way the band is a shelter, people find shelter in music, and also through joining it, y’know?” _(against attack, attack)_ ; reminders of Wymack’s brief spiel.

 

Eventually Matt caught him tuning his guitar in the break room: a creak - deja vu crawled through his fingers and spun cobwebs in his head.

“I thought you didn’t play anything,” he said smiling.

“I said it’s not really ‘my thing’.”

“You’re not using a tuner,” Matt said slowly.

“I know.”

“Do you need one? Dan might have one.”

“No, I’m fine.” Neil tested the fifth fret of one of the upper strings against the open string of the one above it and turned a knob.

“When did you start playing?” Matt asked.

“Last year.” He strummed all of the strings open, and started a scale. “I don’t play often.”

“Sounds pretty good. Know any songs?”

“A few.” His fingers danced across the strings, from the open B to the A, and to an Am arpeggio.

Following that, Matt came by more and more often, usually accompanied with his trumpet and the music that the Foxhole practiced for the festival. With him, Neil breezed rift by rift through Hennessy, a simple C triad that moved into a G triad and rested into a Gm and back, somewhat reminiscent of a Django Reinhardt’s classic memorability, and of the jive of Caribbean Kompa music. The sections, so simple within themselves, moved together to form complicated rhythms and grooves.

He missed it, he realized.

After all of these months of leaving Millport, he missed how it felt to be part of a band.

“You know,” Matt asked as he packed away his horn. “Why did you pretend to be new to guitar?”

“I’m not pretending.” Neil put his pick in his pocket.

His eyebrows nearly reached his hairline. “You could play with us when we go caroling right? Dan wouldn’t mind.”

“I don’t play for other people like that.” Neil packed the guitar away.

“We could really use your talent.”

“Thank you,” he said, and rubbed the fraying ends of his shirt, “but I can’t do that.”

“Just think about it, ok?”

“No promises,” Neil said.

“So you _are_ considering it.”

“I’m considering ending this conversation.”

“You’re saying that,” Matt said, tapping his head, “but that internal dialogue? Never stops.”

Through the careful prodding and questioning of the Foxhole, the veneer of Neil Josten was chipped and sold. Dan would confide in him problems of The Foxhole (the band) - their instruments, fellow bandmates, funding problems - Neil would offer suggestions. He didn’t know how, but from the small pieces of himself that he gave them, they learned that he had perfect pitch - that he had a preference for jazz music and that he had taken “some” music classes when he was younger.

During breaks, Allison and Neil would pass snide comments and bets about some of the customers, and a relationship founded on mutual spite and general cattiness, became one where they shared actual complaints: her rants about her on/off again boyfriend and Neil’s about the customers he got at the lot, or particularly rude patrons, or her offering him a vanilla latte and a cheese danish when he returned from the lot. - “Anorexia does not look good on anyone.”

Somehow, he felt like part of a chord, a large “G7” turned “C”. He felt completed, solid - stable. In a way, he felt like - like jazz.

_(The problem, however, was that Neil Josten was not solid. He was a character, a mask to be taken on and off. He had as much substance as air and was just as transient.)_

He saw more of them as they planned for Halloween fundraiser and show at the cafe. Abby had agreed to raise prices so that a portion of the profit would go to a children's organization. The four of them tentatively considered caroling, traveling from store to store. But the idea was mostly scrapped under the weight of Andrew’s probable withdrawal and the poor dynamics of their group.

Neil could hear them from the breakroom. He tried to focus on arpeggiating, but his fingers kept slipping on the soft nylon, and his ears were caught on their words. So he went running. First down the block, then further, further down onto the next avenue and back. No matter how hard he ran, he couldn’t out run his problems.

When he returned from his run, Dan offered him a drink: an iced chai tea with lemon extract. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

He tried to speak around the hang in his throat. It rung flat: “I’m great.”

**Eight Years Prior:**

They lived in a dim flat in Berlin. The paint was fragile and ugly - off white that waned gray and brown and chipped in large chunks, and crumbled when you scraped your finger against it. It was nauseatingly small, consisting of a single room (a bedroom with two walls repurposed as a kitchen and bathroom). There was a single lumpy mattress, thick blinds over the windows, and his mother’s eyes: large and caliginous, overcasted by round frames.

The phantom pain of a bullet burrowing its way past a Kevlar vest, the very real pain (brown, green and sticky) of a ruler hitting his fingers when his tapping too closely matched a chord progression.

He knew better than to complain.

He was eleven years old, his name was Alex and there were three rules: no friends, no music, and no English. Alex had blonde hair and green eyes, and never said much to anybody. The girls thought he was shy, the boys thought he was stupid, and the teachers thought he might have been troubled but were too uncertain to ask. He mostly kept to his books and papers, but after school he retreated into the music storage room and practiced on the keyboard. It was mostly alright until the grating sound of the metal door against the floor broke his scales. Alex jumped and grabbed his bag.

“Hi.” Ben, a freckled older student stood in the doorway. He was only half in the doorway, and he kept shifting his feet. They shared a maths class.

“Hello.”

“I didn’t know you played piano!”

“Only recently,” he lied.

“You sounded great though.”

“It was only scales,” Alex said, picking at his nails.

“Still,” he stepped into the room, and the door slammed shut and Neil tried not to jolt. “Can you teach me something?” He had unusually large eyes that were a dangerous shade of blue - aquamarine, and pronounced by his dark eyelashes and hair. Neil paused, fiddling with his shirt. “I -” he paused. “Sure.” He looked back at his hands.

Ben slid next to him. “Ready when you are.”

“I can show you some basics, but my mom’s coming soon...”

That day he only taught him about octaves and the musical alphabet. The next day Ben came again, and the day after that and the day after that. It became a routine - warm ups, major scales, minor scales, music theory, etc.

For fifteen to twenty minutes a day, he could forget Nathaniel Wesninski and the real reason he was in Berlin. Instead of black and white truths, there were only black and white keys.

It lasted a month.

His mother found out when he had arrived late to her pickup.

The imperial purple of his wrists was barely hidden behind beige bandages, a starch white cotton shirt, and the alibi that he’d hurt himself while cooking. His mother made it a point to pick him up on the dot. He started to avoid Ben, the bright “hellos” before class, the open seat beside him, his shadow on the closet door.

“What’s up with your hands?” Ben asked, sliding into the seat in front of Alex.  

He looked up briefly, then continued the problem the teacher had left on the board.

“Why are you avoiding me?”

Alex shrugged, “I don’t know what you mean.” He set up the inequality and  isolated “x” from the rest of the problem.

“You obviously do.”

“I think you’re imagining things.”

Ben sucked in his teeth and scribbled something down in his notebook. “I’m your friend, and you can talk to me about anything, alright?”

Alex snorted, “I barely know you.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He gave him a tight lipped smile. “Call me, alright?” He finished the problem; there were no real solutions. That night, Neil had burned his number, and the next day they left Berlin.

 

* * *

 

 

Neil woke up in a cold sweat. He felt garotted by piano wires. He stared up at the white walls and cracks of his room and tried to place himself back to Palmetto.

Four weeks had passed and he was still there. He checked his roots to ensure they were still covered and then went running to catch his breath.

The car lot was busy as always, and the constant thrum of engines was enough to calm him down. When he arrived at the cafe, Andrew was slung over the counter, face contorted into an open mouthed grin. “Hello.”

“Hi,” he said warily. “Where’s Kevin?”

“Interesting interested. I’m not his keeper.” Andrew shrugged.

“What do you want?” Neil grumbled. 

“What time does your shift end?”

“Nine. Why?”

His grin broadened. “Come outside when it does. It’s time to pay up.”

“I don’t recall buying anything.”

“Ohh how you wound me, it was on sale, a real deal you know? Stop being scared. Fear isn’t helping you in the least. Be square, be there. Just be around.” He tapped two fingers to his head.

“Is that all?” Neil asked.

“Just checking in.” He left the shop just as abruptly as he had entered it, in a rush of jingling wind chimes. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Break Room](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11718000) by [SmokesOnTheRoof (SceneryTurnedWicked)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SceneryTurnedWicked/pseuds/SmokesOnTheRoof)




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